


Keep My Eyes To Serve

by Nevanna



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abuse, Compulsion, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Manipulation, Power Imbalance, Sexual Harassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 22:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20824913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nevanna/pseuds/Nevanna
Summary: Elias has always found ways to keep Jon close.





	Keep My Eyes To Serve

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a kinkmeme prompt that begins, _"Elias totally hated not being able to control the last Archivist (Gertrude) which is why he tried to groom Jon so much, controlling how much information he had at any one time, constantly lying on him, carefully choosing him for the position far in advance. I kind of like the idea of him sexually fixating on Jon as well._"
> 
> I kind of liked it, too.
> 
> The title is from the song "Below My Feet" by Mumford & Sons.

The longer Jon waits outside the office, the more time he has to second-guess every preparation that he made.

He’s already researched all the available details of the Magnus Institute. He had his most presentable suit dry-cleaned so that not even a hint of cigarette smoke remained. He ironed his dress shirt carefully the night before, practicing his responses to every conceivable interview question until he was pretty sure he’d be able to answer something like, “Have you ever had a paranormal experience?” without a quaver in his voice. Even if he couldn’t prepare for every contingency, he can perhaps _appear_ as if he has.

The door opens.

Elias Bouchard’s smile is warm, his handshake firm and enveloping. Jon has to instruct himself, quite forcefully, to let go.

-

“Were you planning to sleep here?”

Jon looks up. He and Elias (who requested, during Jon's first day of work, to be called by his first name) are alone in the library. “Would I be breaking some sort of rule if I were?”

“No rule that I’ve made.” Elias’ fingers brush Jon’s as he runs them over the page. “May I see?”

“I would have gotten started earlier if it hadn’t been mis-shelved.” Jon shows him the cover. “I doubt that the school is truly haunted, of course. If this history can offer an alternate explanation…”

“Jonathan, I admire your work ethic, and I’d be delighted to discuss your theories another time. For now, I don’t want to see you grow sloppy from lack of rest.” Elias pats his arm. “Do we understand each other?”

Jon sighs. “I’ll get my things and go.” There's probably no tactful way to ask if the head of the Institute suggests such _discussions_ with all of his research staff, or to point out that he can’t exactly leave with a hand still resting against his bicep, so he’s grateful when Elias finally releases him.

-

With each passing minute, the room grows noticeably warmer, the drunken chatter and sugary holiday music grate a little bit more, and Jon’s yearning for the peace and quiet of his flat grows exponentially. He tries to think of a polite way to dislodge the arm from around his shoulders as Elias introduces him to the Institute’s expensively dressed donors, but when the conversation turns to Jurgen Leitner’s books, he couldn’t have moved if he wanted to.

“It takes most of our new employees a while to get used to a research institution that’s grateful for the destruction of books,” Elias remarks with a grin.

“I didn’t know much about the books in question when I started,” Jon says, although _not much_ wasn’t the same as _nothing_. “But I’m sure that attitude does wonders for our reputation within the intellectual community.” 

“Oh, Elias, I can see why you like this one,” says one of the guests. His eyes rake Jon from head to toe. “Well, one of the reasons, anyway.”

Elias’ grip tightens on Jon’s shoulders, and his eyes narrow. “Whatever you’re implying, you ought to _rethink_ it.”

The older man goes pale and sways on his feet, his companion catches his arm to keep him from falling, and Jon takes advantage of the spectacle to slip away through the crowd.

He doesn’t get very far before Elias calls his name. “Please hear me out,” he says. “That should not have happened. I don’t think that any of my associates will be making untoward remarks about you again.”

Jon turns and favors him with a nod. “Thank you," he says stiffly, "but this is as good a time as any for me to leave.”

“You didn’t want to come tonight, did you?” Jon hesitates, and Elias coaxes, “You can be honest.”

“In case you weren’t aware, I’m not the world’s most social creature. I just…”

“…Wanted to know what it would be like?” Elias finishes for him. “I’m not surprised. There’s nothing wrong with a little bit of curiosity about what’s on the other side of the door. That’s why you sought us out, isn’t it?”

_It is polite to knock._ The image of Mr. Spider fills Jon’s mind, as clearly as if the book were still in front of him, and he shivers. 

“Did I say something wrong?” Elias has drawn just a bit closer. “We’d all be very happy if you returned for at least a little while. Unless I’m much mistaken, this is usually the point in the evening when your colleague, Mr. Stoker, drapes himself in tinsel and starts singing. I promise that the sight will cheer you up.”

-

During his years as a researcher, Jon becomes more used to Elias’ occasional strange remarks or… lapses in respect for personal space. It’s not as if they’re part of every conversation, and Jon shouldn’t flatter himself by ascribing any sort of intent to them. And in the months after his position changes, he is too preoccupied with other concerns to give those incidents much thought.

Martin is still out sick, and therefore unlikely to barge in with offers of tea, which Jon doubts would have been enough to propel him through the day ahead. He makes coffee in the staff kitchen, closing his eyes to inhale the smell.

When a hand lights briefly on the base of his spine, he doesn’t quite jump.  


“I startled you,” Elias observes. It’s not a question.

Nor is it an apology, but Jon still finds himself saying, “It’s all right. I suppose that this line of work frequently lends itself to… moments of unease.”

“I thought that I would be the last one to leave yesterday. Was I wrong?”

“I lost track of time, tying up some loose ends on the Burroughs case. It hardly seemed worth returning home when I knew I’d be returning so early anyway.” The coffee maker beeps. “I’ve started keeping a change of clothes in the Archives, just in case.”

“Gertrude often did the same.” Jon waits for more information about his predecessor, but instead, Elias asks, “I hope you slept well, then?” His gaze sharpens. “No bad dreams?”

In truth, Jon has had quite a few of those recently, but that question is as intimate in its own way as any physical touch that he’s received so far.

-

The carpet is absurdly warm and soft beneath Jon’s hands and knees, and fingers move rhythmically, relentlessly, through his hair and along his neck. He tries not to think about where those fingers have been only minutes before, and makes one more attempt to force the words from his throat, but he chokes again on _I quit_ and _I’m done_ and _I never want to see you again,_ gags like his mouth is still full…

…and then Elias is rubbing his back and murmuring in his ear, his tone even gentler than the one in which he’d once reassured his Head Archivist that the Prentiss-hive was absolutely dead, when she seemed like the worst horror that they’d ever have to face. “I know, Jon. Trust me, I know. Can you take a breath for me, now, and let it out?”

Somehow, Jon does. “You did this to me,” tumbles out with it, followed by, “To _us_,” as he remembers his argument with Tim. “I don’t know how, but you wanted to make sure that we can’t leave our jobs, no matter what you do to us.”

“As much as I would like to take the credit, your ties to the Institute run much deeper than that.” Elias sounds amused. “Of course, if it were only up to me, I would still prefer to keep you… close.” He lifts his hand. “Now, why don’t you clean yourself up? Or would you like my help?”

-

Only much later, when Jon understands a great deal more about the terms of his employment, does he ask, “What about the others?” By now, he thinks that he can feel the buzz in his throat, on his tongue, when he puts that extra power into a question; perhaps it will remove… other tastes… from his mouth. “Melanie, Tim, Martin, Basira… are they ‘close’ to you as well?”

Elias pauses with his shirt still mostly open, and closes his eyes. “Ah, that’s _exquisite_.” He opens them in time to see the disgust on Jon’s face. “Pout all you like, but I can guarantee that not everybody – or every_thing_ – will understand or appreciate your magnificent abilities the way that I do.”

The scars from Jon’s encounter with Jude Perry, the remembered smell of his own skin as it sizzled, are evidence enough of that. “Are you going to answer me?”

“You know that I don’t have to.” Elias finishes buttoning his shirt and smiles indulgently. “But I will anyway, and the answer is: no, not yet. I’m sure that you won’t do anything to make me change my mind,” he adds as Jon’s fists clench. “After all, you still fancy yourself their protector, don’t you?”

-

“…Jon?” Martin’s voice is tentative. “Do you need anything else from us?” He gestures toward the door.

“What? No, I suppose not. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’re staying?”

“Elias wants to see me,” Jon says, summoning the officious detachment that used to fill every word he said to his assistants. 

Suspicion flares on Martin’s face. “What for?”

“He’s still our boss, isn’t he?” Jon reminds him. _He wants to see what I’m becoming, even if I don’t entirely understand it myself. He wants to see what I’ll do for information, or for your safety. He wants to see me on my back or on his lap or on my knees, and for _ me_ to see his pleasure when it’s _his_ turn to kneel, because being watched will feed his – our – god._

“He’s looking for a cozy chat about creepy eye monster stuff, probably,” Tim offers. “Not for the likes of us mere mortals.”

“Jon isn’t a monster,” Martin protests.

“Oh, save it!” Tim snaps, and stalks out of the Archives, leaving Martin looking more troubled than ever.

“It’s all right,” Jon says, and doesn’t add, _He has a point_, because the last thing he needs is Martin’s pity.

“It’s not. He doesn’t understand...”

“Few people do.”

“Are you sure you’re going to be okay here?”

“Martin, from what exactly…” _Do you think that you need to protect me_, Jon would have continued, but he stops abruptly when he sees Martin tense, which is, indeed, one of the _less_ extreme reactions to the threat of a question from the Archivist. “Never mind,” he says quickly, reaching out to touch Martin’s arm. “Please do go home. Stay safe.”

He’s wondered if the heights of ecstasy or the languid satisfaction of the afterglow might render Elias more vulnerable to compulsion, to _What are you planning?_ or _How could I make sure that you never touch me – or any of us – again?_ Jon can’t be certain, but he knows that he’ll have to choose his moment carefully, for all of their sakes. 

“Thanks,” Martin says. He doesn’t seem to care that Jon hasn’t let go of his arm, and Jon finds himself wishing that he didn’t have to. “You, too.”


End file.
